I always had a gift, until one day you took that too. My words were presents of the past. Somehow, the world loved them more than I did. And now, the only time I have a gift is when you’re in the picture, but not in the frame.
You never stay long enough to know it, but you’re the muse of my words.
The gifts are no longer for me; they’re for you. I hate that I can write hundreds of words when you can’t say even one or three to me. The words pile up the more you ignore and push me away. So the farther you are, the closer I get on paper.
The closer I get to finding an answer to this solution; the closer I get to forming a lie. So please, stay where you are. Because you come an inch closer, and I’m headed three feet back down under the hole I was buried in.
It’s all a tease, isn’t it? The reassurance I give you in knowing I’m still here, but you’ won’t ever stay. Some part of you wants it, but ultimately you keep walking away. And the farther you walk, the more I write to you, hoping one day the pages make it to you. It’ll be an unknown sender, with no return address but you’ll know exactly who took the time to pour their words onto paper.
And you’ll be unable to give me back anything in return, just as always.
You’d open me up, see words and instead of the person behind them and not understand. It wouldn’t make any sense, like this too. It’ll get tucked into a drawer with old letters of past pain and forgetful futures. And yet still, somehow I’ll always be at the bottom; always an option, but never a priority.
And I know I should stop, giving pieces of myself to those who can’t appreciate what goes into such a gift. But if I stop, then it’s over. It’s a dangerous habit that I can’t quit. You see, I can’t stop once I have started. You can’t say just one, so I say them all. I’ll be spilling out my heart onto crisp sheets of white lined paper until there’s nothing left of me, until next time. Until you decide to take one step towards me and see that no gift will ever be enough to satisfy your soul. That’s when you’ll leave and I’ll write till dawn tells me it’s time to get some sleep.
But most of all, I worry that my gift will destroy me. Somehow, it’s broken me and I try to patch myself up from all the damage. I’m trying to do it alone, but you rip the Band-Aid off before I can beg you to not to look at the scars you’ve left.
Because the only time I am able to lift my fragile fingers off the keys is when you hurt me, without even knowing, without even caring.
And I worry, that this pain ultimately makes me feel good somehow. I’ve tried to accept the fact that the only thing consistent with you is the disappointment you leave me with. It’s expected that the only thing you give me is the power to write about it. I once was able to write before you, but I don’t know a time like that anymore. I don’t know how else to write except of pain and unrequited love. So I don’t know if this is a curse or a blessing anymore.
This is no longer a gift, it’s a loss that I’m addicted to.